One Life in the Wicked City
by cade
Summary: A strange story about the lives of several members of the drow mercenary band Bregan D'aethe.


One Life in the Wicked City  
By cade  
  
Rating- R for language and other unsavory stuff like prostitutes and... Things. If that makes you uncomfortable, leave.  
  
Note- All the characters for the most part belong to TSR, and Mr. Salvatore, to whom I offer my gratitude for helping me open up several doors I thought were closed forever.   
  
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Part One- Acquisition  
  
Night in Menzoberranzan was no quieter than the day. For those who could hear the whispers of conspiracy, that is. None in the dark elven city heard those murmurs better than Jarlaxle.  
  
Even as he worked his way through the dangerous alleys of Say'orlist, Menzoberranzan's infamous red-light district, he kept his ears open for any hint of useful information to be had.  
  
And his eyes, too. Both eyes, for tonight he wasn't wearing his eyepatch, or his trademark hat. In fact, he even had the hood of his cloak pulled low over his head, concealing the fact that Jarlaxle had no hair.  
  
  
It wasn't that the mercenary cared if anyone recognized him skulking around Say'orlist. He had spent years purposefully cultivating a reputation as eccentric. In his formative years, when he'd first been establishing himself and setting Bregan D'aethe into it's place of power, 'shock value' had been Jarlaxle's middle name. He loved the irony of having matron mother's groan and look down their noses at him, then pay handsomely for Bregan D'aerthe's services.  
  
No, Jarlaxle was incognito tonight more as a lark. It had been ages, centuries even, since the mercenary had to creep through the shadows. Not since he was a very young elfling and the shadows had held unspeakable terrors. Now so many years later, the shadows held nostalgia. And promise.  
  
Coming to an intersection flanked by low stalactites, Jarlalxe stopped and glanced around. Here was the designated place, and it was the right time... Where was Matron Ilorazia?  
  
Only a twitch of Jarlaxle's jaw revealed his annoyance. He sighed silently and leaned against one of the stone pillars, preparing to wait. Apparently Ilorazia intended to be fashionably late.  
  
There was a black mark against a female who was not ranked highly in Jarlaxle's book anyway. He hated Ilorazia, and hated the way she operated. Her house, a lower ranked clan named Insingon, was little more than a brothel that catered to those with the most perverse- or just plain disgusting- tastes. Jarlaxle didn't care what House Insingon did, but Matron Ilorazia set him on edge. She personified to him, every sin that damned Menzoberranzan to the 9 Hells. Or at least kept the city from working in a productive way. Menzoberranzan would always be in chaos with people like Ilorazia holding the reigns. Jarlaxle loved chaos, but not simple mindless chaos. It had to be worthwhile.  
  
Given the chance, Jarlaxle would have been happy to put Matron Ilorazia out of his misery. But that would have to wait, for the mercenary had a deal with the matron. One of those unspoken terms of this deal was that Bregan D'aerthe would take no action against House Insingon for the duration. Unless Jarlaxle got an offer for the termination of House Insingon, of course...  
  
Business before pleasure when they can't be combined! Jarlaxle reminded himself.  
  
A faint whisper made the alert mercenary turn slightly readying his knives in case the intruder happened to be someone he wasn't expecting. Then Matron Ilorazia swept into the alley as if she were entering a grand hall. Jarlaxle stood and forced himself to paint a calm and polite expression on his face.  
  
The female's red eyes had been lined with kohl that was almost the same shade of crimson. Her narrow mouth had been painted with the same color as well. The effect certainly was.... Stunning. To say the least.  
  
War paint. Jarlaxle mused, briefly seeing an image of Uthegental Armgo in his mind's eye. The huge and arguably psychotic weapon master of House Del'armgo often wore similar decorations. Oh, they'd make a handsome couple! That notion nearly cracked Jarlaxle's cool facade.  
  
To cover, he bowed low. "Matron Ilorazia, as always it's a pleasure."  
  
Her lips curled in a lecherous grin. "Of course Jarlalxe, of course," she purred in that faux seductive tone that set Jarlaxle's teeth on edge. "Have you the payment?"  
  
"Only if you have the product." Jarlaxle replied, hoping to get this transaction over as quickly as possible. He didn't know how long he could sublimate his urge to go for this female's throat.  
  
Matron Ilorazia smiled wider, and from the depths of her piwafwi, produced a neatly swaddled bundle. A tiny whimper came from those blankets and Ilorazia's eyes glittered ravenously. "I am loath to give up such a beautiful child." She said in a syrupy tone. "Even if it is just a male. But, well, a deal's a deal and money's money."  
  
Jarlaxle nodded indifferently. For years, Bregan D'aerthe had taken in the by-products of House Insingon's lurid business. Only male children of course, but Jarlaxle figured it was Insingon's loss. With this new blood, Bregan D'aerthe's prosperity was insured for at least several more centuries. And someday, House Insingon just might find its unwanted children at it's throat.  
  
"His mother has agreed?" Jarlaxle asked before claiming the infant.  
  
Matron Ilorazia snorted with contempt; "Amman is not in the right mind to do anything."  
  
Jarlaxle nodded again and handed the female her payment. Mentally, he made a note to keep the name Amman in mind.  
  
"I do wish you'd accept my other offers." Ilorazia breathed in what the mercenary assumed was supposed to be a seductive way.  
  
He offered her his most charming smile. "Ah, I am tempted," he lied. "But let's keep business...business." He bowed a final time then left Ilorazia in the alley.  
  
Once a good distance away, Jarlaxle looked down into the child's face. "Someday, when you're old enough to understand, you'll thank me for getting you out of that she-dragon's claws!"  
  
The elflings only response was to yawn and blink curiously up at the mercenary. Jarlaxle laughed and pondered who among his band would be best suited to foster this new one. Perhaps L'zereth, Jarlaxle mused. L'zereth was a disposed patron of middle years who had recently lost his house, including his eight children. Perhaps becoming a 'wean father' would cure the fighter of his mild depression.  
  
Jarlaxle chuckled again, then continued on his way back to the Claw Rift and home to Bregan D'aerthe...  
  
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Part Two- Information Exchanges  
  
Several days later, Jarlaxle slipped into Melee Magthere in search of information. He did not enjoy his infrequent trips to the academy; the walls held too much memory. But the mercenary's curiosity had been roused and demanded sating.  
  
Getting past the common rooms to the masters' quarters was no easy task, for it meant creeping past at least a hundred drow warriors in training. Jarlaxle didn't find this too daunting though, he hardly a novice at stealth and had a minor invisibility spell for further insurance. Besides that, his spirits were still high from the smooth transition with Matron Ilorazia and the fact that L'zereth had taken the elfling without a word of complaint. He'd even named the babe Geden, an old word that meant secret or unknown.  
  
"It is good you took him from those people." L'zereth had commented. "Better he have a chance to prove himself as one of us than to be a slave to some whore. He is a strong one, a strong son for Bregan D'aerthe."  
  
Jarlaxle couldn't have agreed more.  
  
He stopped at a certain door and crouched to inspect the lock. It was simple and held no special dweomers. Jarlaxle grinned, knowing his contact's disdain for magic, he was not surprised. He reached up and withdrew a thin mithril pin from the band of his hat, (which he was wearing today) then proceeded to pick the lock. In a few seconds the door swung open and Jarlaxle slipped inside to await his informant.  
  
Zaknafein Do'Urden was glad the day was at it's end. He didn't mind teaching at the school of fighters for it was not his job to fill the heads of the students with lies. He was a weapon master, reputably Menzoberranzan's finest, his duty was to mold those young bodies for warfare and train uncertain hands who to wield a blade, a whip, a crossbow...  
  
No, Zaknafein didn't mind his role as teacher. He far preferred his role at the academy to that in Matron Malice's court. Yet at times it was hard to see so much hatred in such young eyes. Hatred children should have no inkling of. Most drow were oblivious to this tragedy, accepting this as mental conditioning. Zaknafein saw it for what it was, and in a private corner of his heart, he mourned for each student who passed through his hands.  
  
Another creature so preoccupied with his thoughts would have missed the subtle hints that the door to his quarters had been fooled with. Zaknafein did not. Wasting no time on subterfuge, the weapon master drew his swords and kicked open the door. An extreme reaction perhaps, for when Zaknafein scanned the room, it was empty of any tell tale heat.  
  
Slowly he advanced, swords held defensively. Even though his eyes told him all was clear, another sense warned him that someone was definitely here.  
  
"Show yourself!" He called out loudly, readying himself for an attack.  
  
"Fine." Someone replied and Zaknafein was suddenly faced with a grinning Jarlaxle, his swords an inch from widening the mercenary's smirk.  
  
"Ah Zaknafein, what a credit you are to the academy, always prepared!"  
  
A faint smile appeared on the weapon master's usually stern face. "You almost got yourself killed Jarlaxle," he chided. "What are you doing here?"  
  
The mercenary chuckled. He truly liked, and was truly impressed by Zaknafein Do'Urden. He pushed the swords out of his face- which would have been a dangerous action for most drow- and motioned for Zaknafein to sit.  
  
When he'd first learned of the weapon master, Jarlaxle had tried everything to get him into Bregan D'aerthe. Unfortunately, Matron Malice already had gotten her claws buried deeply in Zaknafein. Even after she'd disposed of him as her patron, she still kept a tight grip on him. So, instead of recruiting Zak, Jarlalxe had established an information trade with him. While the rogue would keep Zaknafein up to date on current events in Menzoberranzan, Zak would occasionally drop a few hints about troublesome students or masters.  
  
When Zak had settled down in his seat, Jarlaxle began, "I recently made a valuable acquisition from one Matron Ilorazia. During our business a name was given and I wondered if perhaps this drow had passed through the academy."  
  
The weapon master laughed, "all of Menzoberranzan has passed through the academy. What is the name?"  
  
"Amman."  
  
"Amman." Zaknafein repeated, thinking, remembering. "Amman Insingon? Yes I think I vaguely remember him. A tall male, fought with a chain whip and short sword."  
  
"You're sure Amman was male?" Jarlaxle asked slowly.  
  
Zak gave him an odd look. "Of course... The students live in close quarters. It would be hard to hide such- deception."  
  
This seemed reasonable to Jarlaxle. He leaned back to ponder this information. "When I asked about this *acquisition's* source, Amman's name was given, but he was represented to me as being female."   
  
Well aware of both Jarlaxle's secrecy and House Insingon's reputation, Zak didn't ask any questions. Jarlaxle was always up to his eyepatch in some insane scheme, with both hands on different projects at the same time. And somehow, all those schemes always paid off for the rogue. Jarlalxe was dangerous and unpredictable, but Zaknafein had to admit he was a good one to have on your side. If you could afford it.  
  
He grinned at the cagey mercenary and offered, "perhaps the matron was confused or you misunderstood her."  
  
"Jarlaxle mock-balked at the notion. "Never! Ah, how you wound me."  
  
The weapon master arched an eyebrow at his companion, "if I was going to do that I'd use my swords. Now tell me, how fairs the wicked city?"  
  
"As rife with intrigue and plots as ever. The nobles are savage the savages are...well, you know."  
  
Jarlaxle spent the next few minutes giving Zak a run-down of events in the city. Who had fallen, who had risen, and who was doing what with whom. Then he paused, weighing his decision to tell Zaknafein more. It was obvious from the beginning that this little chat was non-profitable today. It was curiosity indulgence and not much more. Yet, Jarlaxle felt uncommonly bound to give Zaknafein this information. Something the mercenary would normally never do.  
  
"All that is nothing." Jarlaxle began. "What is going to happen is more important."  
  
Zaknafein leaned forward, drawn in by Jarlaxle's voice. He'd never heard the rogue speak so directly before.  
  
"Something is going to happen, within the next 100-150 years. I believe we are going to see Menzoberranzan shaken to its foundations."  
  
"What?" Zaknafein couldn't help asking. "A war? An inter-house war?"  
  
Jarlaxle nodded, "yes, a war but one of much greater proportions."  
  
"A war against the surface elves?" Zak asked uncertainly, "against Lloth herself?"  
  
"No, no, no! Think! What two factions have ever been at eachother's throats? One rules, on lives on its knees. Think Zaknafein!"  
  
"Female and male?" The weapon master asked finally, and he saw from Jarlaxle's smile that this was the right answer. "You must be joking."  
  
"Never."  
  
Zaknafein studied the mercenary for some hint of jesting, but as always, Jarlaxle's face was as smooth as black glass, revealing nothing.  
  
"Times are going to change, rather quickly." The rogue said with the same certainty. "No house will be safe, not even Baenre and it's vast stronghold. I still offer a position in Bregan D'aerthe to you."  
  
Zak shook his head, almost regretfully, Jarlaxle noted. "I cannot, Vierna-"  
  
"May someday kill you." The mercenary said bluntly as he rose to leave. "She may be your daughter, but as little as that means now, it'll mean even less in the years to come. Think of my offer."  
  
  
Jarlalxe tipped his hat and disappeared through the door. Zaknafein watched him go with a hundred questions he couldn't begin to ask.  
  
Outside in the courtyard between Melee Magthere, Sorcere and Arch Tinilith, Jarlaxle stared thoughtfully at the spider shaped building. "How many ways do you pull our strings, Mistress of Spiders?" He whispered. "And how long shall we let you pull them?"  
  
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Part Three: The Fall of House Insingon  
  
Years past and little on Menzoberranzan's chaotic surface ever truly changed. Houses came and went. Rose, fought, and fell. The power players of the ruling council shifted randomly. All was as it had always been for centuries untold, and through it all was Bregan D'aerthe, watching and orchestrating from the Shadows.  
  
Jarlaxle's eyes in Mezonberranzan and in Ched Nasad all told the story of what was happening beneath the surface though. A new wave of discontent was spreading through the male half of the drow nation, and it was only a matter of time before someone found the courage to go against the matriarchy.   
  
Even without his spies, Jarlaxle knew all about this discontent, for he'd felt it growing within his army, and in a lesser scale, within himself. Occasionally, the mercenary had to wonder what it would be like to be a valid leader in Menzoberranzan and not just a skulker in the shadows. He had to laugh every time the notion passed his mind though, for the term democratic anarchy, would always trail after. What was really funny now, was that Jarlaxle knew that a time when a 'patron father' might replace a 'matron mother', was nearer than any expected. Perhaps even Lloth was unaware of the new stirrings, but well... Jarlaxle wasn't going to tell her.  
  
Today however, the rogue leader was dealing with matters closer to home. Bregan D'aerthe was on the eve of battle, and some of the youngest soldiers needed some extra information before this fight. For some of them had actually come from the house Bregan D'aerthe was about to engage.  
  
Jarlaxle studied the pair in his office, L'zereth and his adopted son Geden. The younger drow had just graduated from Melee Magthere where he had made it into the top ten percent of his class. Jarlaxle couldn't deny he saw a bright future for the boy in Bregan D'aerthe's ranks. A grin touched the mercenary's face when he thought of Geden as the babe he'd purchased from Matron Ilorazia three decades ago. How House Insingon could have benefited from one like him! But Geden knew nothing of his birth family, he'd never asked and no one had felt it necessary to tell him or any of the other displaced Insingon children of their origins.  
  
Until now, for it was House Insingon that Bregan D'aerthe had been contracted to terminate on the morrow.  
  
It seemed Matron Ghenni'Tiroth Tlabbar of House Faen Tlabbar, also hated Ilorazia and wanted her whole house taken out. Jarlaxle had been more than happy to make a deal with Ghenni'Tiroth. Tomorrow, fifty of Bregan D'aerthe's soldiers would accompany Faen Tlabbar's forces in the assault on House Insingon.  
  
Now Jarlaxle was curious about how a soldier's mindset could be manipulated. If a young and proud warrior like Geden knew he had been cast off like so much iblith, would it steal his resolve to fight? Or would it weaken him?  
  
Jarlaxle glanced at L'zereth, who was obviously not happy about the whole situation. He'd raised Geden, trained him, and come to consider the boy his own. He didn't want some foreign house suddenly interfering.  
  
The mercenary leaned forward suddenly, looking Geden straight in the eye. "Tomorrow brings your first true fight," he began. "It seems timely to tell you of your true connections to House Insingon."  
  
Geden looked at L'zereth confused. But the older fighter had his eyes averted, trying to ignore the whole scene. He turned back to Jarlaxle. "I don't understand, sir. Bregan D'aerthe is my family."  
  
The rogue leader nodded, pleased by the young warrior's loyalty. "Of course, it was here you were raise. But you should know it was House Insingon that bore you. I purchased you from Matron Ilorazia for little more than a few coins."  
  
Geden's jaw nearly fell in his lap and an angry snort came from L'zereth.  
  
"You aren't hinting that *that* she is my mother, are you?" Geden exclaimed, truly vexed by the notion.  
  
"No, not her." Jarlaxle replied placidly. "I believe your parent's name was Amman." The mercenary shrugged, watching Geden's reactions carefully.  
  
The young drow clenched his hands in his lap as if trying to physically grasp the information Jarlaxle had given him. As the mercenary had predicted, anger and humiliation welled up within Geden's proud heart. His eyes glittered with untapped violence. He knew House Insingon's reputation, who in Menzoberranzan didn't? To be associated with filth like them was unthinkable!  
  
Jarlaxle saw the change in Geden's calm expression. "Do you still want to fight House Insingon?" He asked slyly.  
  
The young drow looked up at the mercenary with a dark expression; "it will be good to bring war to their doorstep." He said coldly.   
  
Jarlaxle favored his soldier with a grin. "And so you shall."  
  
Without another word, Geden turned and left Jarlaxle's office, leaving L'zereth behind. The older drow got up to follow, but Jarlaxle stopped him.  
  
"Nothing is changed. He is still your son."  
  
L'zereth shook his head and gave a bitter little laugh. "If Jarlaxle expected no change, then Jarlaxle would have never spoken."  
  
Jarlaxle watched L'zereth go, thinking of how everything was beginning to fall into place like so many pieces on a chessboard. But the figurines on Jarlaxle's board were all ebony. And alive.  
  
  
L'zereth found Geden in the armory running a whetstone along the fine edge of his blade. Seeing the male he considered his father, the young drow asked, "why didn't you tell me of my past?"  
  
"What was there to tell?"  
  
In a flash of silver, Geden's sword came to angle beneath his father's chin. They stared at eachother, red eyes locked, looking into the past and the future  
  
"They gave you to me to raise and I was told never to mention it." L'zereth admitted. "None of the others knew either, before this day."  
  
"Others?" Geden asked, still holding the blade to his father's throat.  
  
Despite his vulnerable position, L'zereth laughed. "You thought you were the only one? Ah, wael," he sighed. "All fifty of the soldiers joining Faen Tlabbar's troops were born of House Insingon."  
  
Geden dropped his sword's point to the ground. "Fifty?" He mouthed, stunned.  
  
"Did you really think all of Bregan D'aerthe was made up of disposed patrons?" L'zereth asked almost gently. "Geden, you know what it's like for a male in our world. None live that long. We needed a guaranteed source of drow. Those like Ilorazia see such lives as nothing- iblith."  
  
"You make it sound like a kindness." Geden spat, uncertain where to direct his anger now.  
  
"Isn't it? How much freedom would you have under Ilorazia? How much freedom do you think your parent has?"  
  
This set Geden back again. He'd always known L'zereth was not his true father, but it never occurred to him to question his mother's identity. Tomorrow he might be face with her and he would have to kill her weather his heart was in the deed or not. That was the way of the drow.  
  
  
By the morning glow of Narbondel, the troop of Bregan D'aerthe soldiers left Clawrift in groups of ten to rendezvous with Faen Tlabbar's force in Say'orlist. House Insingon had already been ringed in a circle of blackness and enchanted silence. The mental defenses had already been breached by Tlabbar clerics; the only fighting that remained was to be done with blades.  
  
The combined forces waded through Insingon's soldiers. Matron Ghenni'Tiroth had commanded that every living creature in the house be destroyed. It was an order that was being carried out gleefully.  
  
Geden was hard at work clearing the staircase that led to the upper floor, his swords were coated to the hilt in gore and a slick trail of blood was left in the young drow's wake. He slew with abandon, trying to quell the rage that fueled his blade's movements.  
  
He couldn't deny that he was searching for someone, a certain drow named Amman. Geden was convinced he'd know the one who bore him on sight, but every face he scanned was foreign.  
  
For a moment the melee paused and Geden looked across Insingon's great hall to see how his fellows faired. It was apparent that all the pre-planned strategies had given away to the drow's frenzied blood lust. Not that it mattered, House Insingon was doomed, and the house's clerics and soldiers knew it, and reverted to pure instinct in hopes of fending off the invaders. But it was pointless.  
  
Seeing her own army so overmatched, Matron Ilorazia turned to flee up to her private quarters and the escape route within. Geden saw the painted female flee, and decided he wanted this kill for himself. Beating back a couple of his own comrades, he chased Ilorazia up another set of stairs. Right at her door he caught her, shoved her in the room and slammed the door behind them.  
  
Matron Ilorazia snarled at him and prepared to cast a spell, but his swords jammed into her throat, cutting of her air.  
  
"Where is the one called Amman!" He shouted in her face.  
  
"Probably dead down there!" Ilorazia gasped as she felt the steel part her flesh.  
  
"Liar! She was not!"  
  
The matron knew her life was forfeit anyway so she bared her teeth and hissed, "you fight to avenge that freak?"  
  
Geden laughed, "I only wished to kill her myself! She is my mother after all." He smiled evilly and pushed the swords through the female's throat. Then with a swift jerk, he pulled the blades apart, severing her head from her shoulders.  
  
Wasting no time to gloat over his kill, Geden ran back downstairs, still determined to have his vengeance against the one who gave him away so casually. The iron bound door of Insingon's dungeon offered a new route to the young warrior. He pried it open and descended into the dank chambers.  
  
Temperatures in the underdark were fairly constant, but here it was cold and wet. A physical sense of despair clutched at Geden and his quick steps slowed to a more cautious pace. The Insingon's had a full stock of every torture device conceivable. Racks and racks of insanely evil devices stood on display, and Geden thought of his conversation with L'zereth.  
  
Yes, being taken from this place was a kindness.  
  
Slowly, Geden turned a corned and stopped dead still. There in the cell was a half-clothed drow chained to the wall. Anger resurfaced in Geden's thoughts as the overwhelming sense that he'd found who he had been looking for came to him. His swords came out and the prisoner looked up at him and met Geden's eyes. The feeling of recognition passed between them.  
  
It couldn't be. This pathetic, wasted creature who's twisted body was neither male nor female, could not be Geden's parent. He could not- would not accept it.  
  
With a furious cry that was uttered half in denial, the young warrior raised his weapons and prepared to obliterate this abomination. But a hand grabbed his wrist, stopping him before he could take a step.  
  
So intent on the chained drow was Geden that he hadn't noticed Jarlaxle and several soldiers enter the dungeon. It was Jarlaxle who had stayed his hand.  
  
"You have his eyes." The mercenary leader said quietly, letting Geden realize the deeper meanings of his words.  
  
"Not a he, not a she, not anything!" Geden barked, "it's a blight that needs destroying!" He tried to twist out of Jarlaxle's grip, but the mercenary proved stronger.  
  
"Because it is a threat to us, or a threat to Geden's pride?"   
  
This question, spoken so calmly, hit home. Geden's swords lowered indecisively. For a moment, he strongly considered going against Jarlaxle's orders. His emotions demanded this accursed evidence of his unclean past be destroyed. Yet... He looked back to the prisoner, then to Jarlaxle and whispered, "I have seen enough." With those cryptic words, Geden slowly walked away, but glanced back over his shoulder to the imprisoned one with every few strides.  
  
When the younger drow left, Jarlaxle moved forward to study the prisoner, who met his gaze calmly, never flinching away from the mercenary's intense scrutiny. In fact, Jarlaxle had to wonder who was more curious about who.  
  
Finally it was this odd creature, such a strange and seamless combination of both sexes, that spoke first. "I had always hoped to see my son someday, but not like this."  
  
"You are Amman then?" Jarlaxle asked, understanding now how it had been possible for this one to pass for male in the school of fighters, yet still bear a child.  
  
He (Jarlaxle decided, since Amman's features were more masculine) nodded. "House Insingon has fallen?" The question was bland, no hope or regret in the words.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Are you going to kill me?" Again there was no emotion in Amman's voice.  
  
Jarlaxle had already made his decision, the moment he'd seen Amman and realized what sort of anomaly he was. A hermaphrodite, someone who with the right tailoring, could pass for either male or female. Jarlaxle already had plans Amman in his spy ring.  
  
He leaned closer to the prisoner and spoke lowly so only he could hear. "If I offered you a knew life and a purpose, would you accept?"  
  
Amman's sunken eyes lit up with interest. "Away from here? Of course."  
  
With a slight nod, the mercenary reached into one of the inner pockets of his cape and brought out a tiny bottle of clear liquid. Carefully, he poured a single droplet onto the chains and the melted from Amman's wrists  
  
Long years of imprisonment had weakened his legs, but Amman refused any support. Shakily he walked over to one of the exotic weapon racks. A mithril and adamantine chain whip caught his eye and he lifted it out, testing its weight. Amman wrapped the links around his hard, thin hands, relishing the familiar feel of the weapon. Then he turned back to Jarlaxle and the soldiers of Bregan D'aerth, and smiled.  
  
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Part Four- Three Years Later  
  
Jarlaxle watched the drama between Geden and Amman unfold with amusement. He wondered what the outcome would be and hoped he wasn't about to lose a valuable soldier or spy.  
  
Amman had proved himself in the years since Bregan D'aerthe took him out of House Insingon. He was given a new face, a new identity and a new purpose. Under this care, Amman had grown strong and was, at the moment, Bregan D'aerthe's premier spy. His 'condition' was another mark in his favor, for with the correct potion, Amman could easily alter his hormonal level to appear as male or female. Sometimes Jarlaxle himself had even been fooled by Amman's masquerade. The mercenary had laughed at his own confusion and silently congratulated Amman's deception. Then he'd made notes on how to always recognize his new spy. Despite the hermaphrodite's loyalty, Jarlaxle knew Amman was not to be trusted any farther than the typical drow. Especially where Geden was concerned.  
  
The younger warrior watched his parent's ascension with mounting rage. He watched and waited, and Amman was adding fuel to the fire by ignoring him. Jarlaxle wanted no dissension within his troops. Chaos without was far preferable to chaos within, and the mercenary had been working slyly behind the scenes to put Amman and Geden together at every chance. Practice melees, reconnaissance missions... Anything that would bring parent and child together under the stress of battle would surly force them to cooperate. Or end in a fight which only one would walk away from.  
  
Now Jarlaxle was standing calmly on the balcony overlooking Bregan D'aerthe's spacious training gym. He watched his soldiers with pride. He had risked much in building Bregan D'aerthe, but those risks had paid off, and were still paying off. An indulgent smile touched the rogue leader's sharp face as he surveyed the exercises taking place below him. His unpatched eye rested on Geden, who was sparring with L'zereth, then shifted across the gym to Amman who was busy perfecting his technique with his chain whip.  
  
They moved alike, Jarlaxle noted as he watched both progeny and progenitor. Moved alike and looked alike as well. Geden had Amman's dark garnet colored eyes and silver streaked hair. There wasn't much of the young drow's sire, the weapon Master of House Insingon, apparent about Geden. Which according to Amman's stilted description of his brutal life within the house, was a good thing.  
  
Geden paused for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, and the moment his movement ceased his gaze irrevocably strayed in Amman's direction. The older spy slid gracefully into an attack, snapping out the chain whip and deflecting an opponent's high swipe, then lashing it out again to trip the attacker up and send him reeling. At a moment's pause in the action, Amman looked up to meet Geden's gaze and smiled slightly.  
  
The fury began to swell behind Geden's eyes till all he could focus on was the taunting face of the freak that had borne him and gave him away so casually.  
  
Ignoring L'zereth's concerned voice, Geden marched through the throng of soldiers till he stood facing Amman. Without a word he drew his two swords and assumed the standard beginning position for a duel. Amman tilted his head and gazed at Geden calmly.   
  
"I will not draw weapons against my own blood." He said quietly so only the young drow could hear.  
  
"I am not your blood!" Geden screamed as he leapt at Amman. Both blades flashed, and on the balcony, Jarlaxle clenched his fists in anticipation.  
  
Amman swung out of range and brought his fist forward through Geden's rage damaged defense. The movement was fast and clean, leaving Geden's nose flat against his face.  
  
Anger dulled by years of brutalization came through Amman's voice as he faced his lost son again. "I will not take this any further. Long ago I risked my life for you to live. Now you repay me with this. I have no wish to take the life I made. You are a fool, Geden."  
  
From his high vantage point, Jarlaxle couldn't hear the dialog, but he could see the sadness and disappointment clear on Amman's mercurial face.  
  
Geden worked to swallow the lump of his anger, but it wouldn't go down. He threw himself back at Amman, yelling, "the life you made!? Then gave away. Oh mother," he spat the word, "what have you risked!?"  
  
Amman's patience was at its end. He was tired of this boy's arrogant assumption that he was the only one who felt the repercussions of their separation. It was so typically drow-like, Amman thought bitterly.  
  
Short sword in hand now, Amman met Geden's attack. "My sanity and self!" He shouted in Geden's face as their blades clashed. "You seem to assume I wished to be born as I am! That I wished to be abused and as a result have a son whom would be pried from my arms two days after his birth! Never have I given anything up!" He parried Geden's quick blows, and finding another gaping hole in Geden's defense, kicked out at his son's injured face, forcing him back. Amman used the sudden space well, choosing that moment to strike out with the chain whip. It's length twisted about both of Geden's swords and yanked them from his grasp, sending them to fall far from Geden's reach. With his free hand, Amman struck out, catching Geden in the face again with the hilt of his sword.  
  
Jarlaxle knew the end was at hand, Geden was sprawled vulnerable and weaponless across the floor with Amman standing over him. But the older fighter made no moves to finish the job.  
  
The mercenary nodded with silent approval at Amman's mercy. He knew from experience that it took more strength to hold a blow in check than to deliver it. Now it seemed he didn't need to worry about losing anyone. Unless Geden decided to take his stupidity farther.  
  
Amman looked down at his son, "I didn't want to fight or hurt you." He said softly. "But you gave me no choice. Perhaps if you looked deep into your first memories, you'd remember me and understand."  
  
Amman shrugged and walked away, his steps slow. He knew Geden was as lost to him as when Ilorazia took him from Amman's arms almost 30 years ago. And he had to wonder why his parental concerns were so strong. Certainly most normal drow females were not so attached to their young. Children were viewed as useful soldiers and investments. They were not cherished because they were flesh and blood, an extension of the mother's being. They were pawns, nothing more.  
  
Amman didn't want to leave Geden bleeding on the floor, alone with his injured pride. But it was Geden who had made the decision, and once the androgynous fighter realized that, his unexplainable guilt lifted from him.  
  
Jarlaxle used his power to hover down from the balcony to the gym, he moved to Geden who was being helped up by L'zereth. He addressed the injured warrior firmly, "there, that is settled. No more will you dog Amman's heels. You've had your fight and it is done. Both of you have earned your place here, now let it go!" Having said his piece, Jarlaxle turned and followed Amman's path out of the gym.  
  
The mercenary found his soldier in one of the off-tunnels, leaning up against a wall  
  
"You could have killed him." The mercenary said in way of greeting.  
  
"What would I have gained from his death?" Amman asked.  
  
"The last reminder of your life as a slave in House Insingon would be gone," Jarlaxle reasoned, "if I were you I would want to eradicating any memories of that time."  
  
Amman's dark eyes narrowed and Jarlaxle knew he'd hit a nerve. "But you are not. To look forward, you have to be able to look back too. Geden is my son. Do you have children Master Jarlaxle?"  
  
The question surprised the usually unshakable rogue. He smiled and shook his head.  
  
"Then I could not make you understand. Even if you did, I don't think you would understand." Amman lifted his shoulder in a shrug. "And I don't think I could even find the words to try to explain."  
  
The mercenary understood why this was. In the drow language there were no words for love or affection. Such emotions were deemed a weakness. But Jarlaxle didn't think Amman's mercy towards Geden reflected any weakness. Just to be sure he asked, "If you had felled any other drow but Geden, would you have ran him through?"  
  
Amman smiled slightly, "well, perhaps if you hadn't been watching a few lesser soldiers would have disappeared."  
  
Jarlaxle laughed and patted his spy on the shoulder. Still chuckling he made his way back up to his quarters.  
  
In the silence of the corridor, Amman mulled over the conversation and his fight with Geden. He looked down at his hands and the weapons they could wield so proficiently. This life, this place... Was so wrong. There would be a war soon, Amman knew, and he knew he would not miss a chance to fight those that would cast him away as inferior and flawed. But he wondered what good the war would accomplish if the matriarchy were truly over thrown. It was too late for him, and too late for Geden. Probably too late for so many like them. He curled, then relaxed his fists as if he was letting go of everything, and sighed again.  
  
A whisper of footfalls at the end of the corridor drew his attention. Geden was standing there, a spell of healing must have been cast upon his flattened nose, but his face was still bloody.   
  
"You can't want another round." Amman asked cynically. But he could see by Geden's posture and expression, that no further battle would be forth coming.  
  
Geden didn't answer, just walked forward until he and Amman stood face to face. "I-" the young drow stammered, "I have questions. About- about...." He trailed off uncertainly.  
  
Amman nodded, "all right." he told his son softly.  
  
"All right."  
  
End  
  
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Author's Note Part Two  
  
Finally it's finished! I started writing this when I had nothing to do at work, it was just a bunch of shorthand scribbles detailing the life of a character my RPG circle uses- Amman. I got the idea to make him a hermaphrodite after reading a medical journal entry about the condition. Why wasn't he sacrificed at birth as all flawed children are? Well, he was sold as a curio to House Insingon, just as his son was sold to Bregan D'aerthe years later. I know this story is really flawed, gets bumpy in parts, and gets weak in others. I have problems writing fight scenes, and the characterization isn't all it could be... Especially Geden's... But thanks for staying with me. It's been a good experience!  
  
  



End file.
